Truth and Consequences
by faithsette
Summary: "With each passing day it gets harder, more difficult to even fathom letting the truth go, out from the safe cage of her body where it's lived for the past few months." Season 4 prompt fill.
1. Chapter 1

_i got my scars right here_

* * *

She remembers.

But she lied, she continues to lie.

There's no way around it. She lied in that hospital room, darting eyes and dry mouth uttering words that bare no semblance of truth. It was - _is _\- for the best, she tries to tell herself, beats the mantra into her brain because she's not in the right mindset for this, for the terrifying declarations he's already made and for the ones she's still yet to. But his face - his fallen, pained face when she told him she doesn't remember is still burned into her retinas, his features etched into the backs of her eyelids like a signature, and she hates herself for it.

Every time she sees him in the precinct, his upbeat yet vacant expression as he passes her another cup of coffee, she wants to blurt it out. _I heard you_, she wants to say, wants to yell from the rooftops, but she doesn't. She can't get the words to come out, can't make them roll off of where they brand the tip of her tongue. With each passing day it gets harder, more difficult to even fathom letting the truth go, out from the safe cage of her body where it's lived for the past few months.

It eats at her every day and each night as she lies in bed, the conflicting emotions threatening to split her in two, rip her apart until there's nothing left but the truth. At least maybe then it'd be out in the open, her beating heart expressing everything her mouth has failed so miserably to.

She's not ready.

She wants to be ready, but she's not. He loves her. He jumped in front of a bullet for her - in front of his mother and daughter no less - and she wants to shake him, knock some sense into that thick skull of his because it was _ridiculous _and irresponsible and if he'd been hit... no, she's not going to be the reason his daughter is without a father, his mother no longer with a son.

He did it for _her_. To try and save her life, the same life she's been so willing to throw away if it meant solving her mother's case.

That bullet was meant for her, so it's right that she's the one who took it. Pleasant is the last word she'd use to describe the consequences, but it's better that it was her. She's trained for these kinds of things, she signed up for it, she knew the risks - he didn't, and he still doesn't seem to fully comprehend the gravity of what he's doing. If anything had happened to him because of her, there's no way she would've been able to forgive herself.

His words haunt her, echo in her brain late at night, suffocating her until she does something, _anything _to dull the ache, to stop the incessant voice.

He _loves her_.

Richard Castle loves her and she hates that she can't just tell him that she loves him too, because she does. _God_, she does. But she can't, not right now, not in the way she wants to or the way he needs her to.

She's gotten better at masking it each day, each week, so now the normalcy of the precinct life is practically second nature. She sees his face though, the tiny glimmer of hope that sparks in his eyes when he sits beside her on the off chance she may announce that she remembers, that maybe there's something new to tell him. But that moment never comes and the sparkle leaves, gets replaced with the casual playfulness that she's grown so fond of over the years.

That joy is a staple of him, something she knows she can rely on, and she does. But what she wants to see reflecting back at her is the love in his eyes, the same - albeit less fearful - unashamed love that swirled around his irises that day at the cemetery, tears clouding his vision and a lump in his throat as he told her he loved her. It's beautiful, hearing the man you love - she keeps wrestling with the fact that she does love him, has for longer than she's comfortable with - say those three words.

But he deserves more. More than her, more than what she can offer him right now.

He deserves someone who can give him what he wants, what he needs, without the baggage of a dark past and a broken spirit. She's damaged goods, a shell of who she wants to be, who she should be. She wants to be more - for him, for herself, for that nineteen year old girl who had her sights set on being the first female chief justice.

The wall inside her is still there, though he's been making quick work of knocking it down since the day he met her. It may be closer to a pile of bricks at this point but it's still steep, still another hurdle to jump over before she can properly let anyone in.

She lets out a sigh, a free hand coming up to cover her chest, fingers splayed across the scar that's caused so much damage already.

It's fitting, in an oddly sardonic way. She's had emotional scars for as long as she can remember, upwards on almost two decades, and now she has the physical ones to match. Or just one, really, but it's impact is that of dozens.

She sheds her button down, suddenly feeling more than claustrophobic in her clothes, the ones she's yet to change out of after her shift earlier. Her jeans are next, the need for comfort causing her to pull on something lighter, and she stands in nothing but a pair of leggings and her bra. The scar burns in her chest as she takes in her reflection, one arm curling protectively around her bare abdomen, the other hand once again returning to the cause of her problems.

If she hadn't been shot Castle never would've said what he did, she never would've been in the hospital, and she never would've had to lie to him.

She huffs to herself, ridiculing her line of thought, because even if he didn't declare his love for her as she was lying in that grass, bleeding out before his very eyes, she still would've known. She's known for a while - hell, the entire precinct's apparently known since the day he stepped into her life, annoying and insufferable and an _ass_.

A groan slips past her lips as she wonders if she'll ever be truly, one hundred percent ready. It's unlikely, but she's more than willing to try.

She wants to be able to say she's okay, that none of this is still weighing on her, pushing down on her shoulders and her chest to the point of pain.

She doesn't bother to put on a shirt before she pads into her kitchen, grabs a bottle of whiskey and a glass from her cabinet.

As she swallows the liquid, reveling in the welcomed burn as it glides down her throat, she winces, pinches her eyes shut in a wave of disgust. She can't do this, can't hide in the bottle and avoid her problems the same way her father did following the news of her mother.

She won't.

The whiskey is put away, the glass discarded in the sink - after one more, because she's not her father but she does need the buzz - and she digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, an attempt to rub away everything that's settled deep in her subconscious.

_Kate, please_.

His face is hovering above hers, panicked hands trembling as they grasp everywhere and anywhere, one finally landing on her ribs and the other behind her neck.

She squeezes her eyes shut harder and sinks deeper into the couch, the ridges in the cushions brushing against the bare skin of her back.

_Stay with me, Kate. Don't leave me, please_.

She can see his eyes still, remembers vividly how she watched them through her own hazy ones, her vision fading in and out, just blurs of colors one second and slightly clearer pictures the next.

_Kate, I love you. I love you, Kate_.

Her breath hitches, his voice as clear in her mind as it was that day, breathy and laced with emotion, breaking around her name like fine china smashed against a hardwood floor.

_I hear that you tried to save me_.

_I don't remember much of anything_.

The heel of her hand applies more pressure, urging the images to stop, the voices to just _stop_, but they don't, and the more she tries to forget them the more she remembers, the more moments replay like choppy motion pictures on the backs of her eyelids.

It's too much and her breathing quickens, frustration seeping from every pore in her body. She's frustrated with herself, with the sniper, with her stupid issues that are making this more difficult than it has to be. She should be fine, should be perfectly capable of having a healthy, sustainable relationship with someone who loves her and who she loves back but she can't even do that.

Her scar is a sign of life, a sign that she's still here after all that she's been through, but sometimes it feels more like a burden than a blessing.

She should just call him, tell him she heard him and let the chips fall as they may. Get the weight off of her shoulders, get the words she's been longing to say since that day out of her system, off of her tongue where they threaten to spill at any moment.

The scar pulls, tugs against her skin, sends an aching pain that shocks every nerve ending.

She moves to retreat back into her room where it's warm and there are blankets she can crawl under, shut her eyes and try to ignore the thoughts going miles a minute around in her brain, but then a knock sounds from the entryway, once, twice, three times.

Her eyes trail back to the door and she stares at it for a few seconds before finally grabbing a sweater to tug on. She takes her gun from the bedside table and hides it behind her back because she can't be too careful, not now, not when she's barely recovered from this bullet wound that tore through her body.

The knocking continues once or twice but then it stops, and she thinks maybe whoever it is left. One look out the peep hole debunks that theory and the door swings open, her brows knitted together at the sight before her - a slightly disheveled and curious looking Richard Castle.

"Castle?"

His head tilts up then, his eyes locking with hers. "Beckett, good, you're up," he says, walking past her without much of an invitation.

She manages a small laugh. "It's only ten?" Her voice comes out as a question and she watches him continue into her apartment before she turns, closes and locks the door behind them. "What are you doing here?"

He's acting strange - stranger than usual, even for him, which is all too disconcerting - and the bounce in his step she's become so acquainted with is gone. She realizes that he's been somewhat withdrawn for the past week, but she's been too busy dealing with her own thoughts to even ask about it, decided to just chock it up to exhaustion or a stressful conversation with Paula. She should have asked, should have made sure he was okay. That's what he would have done for her.

She almost scoffs. She should have done a lot of things.

Dread creeps into her bones, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach appearing too similar to the one she had that summer he left the precinct, arms wrapped around his ex-wife.

"I'm, uh," he starts, his eyes unfocused, looking right through her. "I'm heading to the Hamptons for a while."

If she wasn't so shocked she would've gasped, but she her body isn't doing anything.

"Need to get away," he gives a small, self-assuring nod. "Do some thinking, some writing."

She finally finds her voice, amazed she can even hear herself think over the pounding of her heart. "How long are you going for?" she asks, a quiet whisper because that's all she can manage.

He just shrugs, now looking anywhere but at her and it makes her nauseous. "A few weeks maybe. I'm leaving now, but I uh... thought I'd tell you in person, I didn't want to just leave."

At least that's something, she thinks. He could have just up and left, but he didn't.

But then she's shaking her head, thoughts jumbled, unable to soak in everything he's telling her. Because he's going to the Hamptons. He's leaving - for a few weeks, _maybe_, and who's to say he'll even come back.

It's not something.

"Why?"

His eyes finally come back to hers but they're dull, lack the light they normally possess. And there's something else there, or maybe something else missing; she can't put her finger on it but she doesn't like it.

"Beckett..." His voice is soft but there's a hint of exasperation there, a hint of sadness, and-

Oh.

Oh, no.

She gets it now. It's because of _her_. He's leaving because of her, because being around her is too much. Seeing her every day and knowing he's confessed his love for her and thinking she doesn't remember is too much and he needs to get away, _do some thinking_.

Some thinking about her, probably about how loving her is useless because she's not ready.

Her heart hammers in her chest, thrashes against her rib cage for release and she can hear her pulse thumping in her ears. Panic sets in because no, she can't let him leave thinking he needs to stop loving her, can't let him rethink her, their partnership, _them_.

She still doesn't say anything, words caught on her tongue, tattooing the tip of it with a burning heat but nothing comes out. And then he's moving past her again, towards the door and towards the Hamptons, and her hand reaches out, catches his forearm before he can make it too far. He stops, turns slowly towards her with furrowed brows and questions in his eyes, and her breath catches.

She's damaged and she has some more healing to do but right now, seeing the look on his face, she finds herself not caring anymore. She loves him and can't bare watching him like this anymore, dejected and acting like everything but himself.

He deserves the truth, at the very least.

"Beckett, what-"

"I heard you," she rushes out, cursing herself for the lack of tact in her confession. It's not how she wanted to tell him, it's not _when _she wanted to tell him, but letting him walk away from her again isn't an option.

His mouth falls open, eyes wide as emotions flicker on and off, burning within them like a wicker candle. The skin of his arm is scorching her palm, branding it the longer she keeps it there, keeps _him _there.

But then he pulls away, his tongue wetting his lips and a hand running through his hair as he turns away from her without another word.

The door closes behind him, leaving her alone in her living room once again, nothing keeping her emotions from finally ripping her apart.

* * *

Based off a prompt I was given: _Beckett struggles with the fact that she lied and Castle decides he has to get away for a while_

This is a two-shot and it's already written, so I'll probably update the second part tomorrow!


	2. Chapter 2

_i got my heart right here_

* * *

She's curled on the couch ten minutes later, hand splayed over her mouth, index finger wiping at each tear that slides down her cheek.

She can't be too surprised by his reaction, or the fact that it didn't go well. At all. He has every right to be angry, to hate her for what she's done - hell, even she's less than pleased with herself at the moment - but she didn't think he'd walk out. At the very least she thought they'd talk it out, probably yell a bit, and then maybe she'd be able to explain why she did what she did. Why she lied. She wants to explain, she _needs _to explain, but now he's gone and all she can do is sit and think about the train wreck that just took place in her living room.

It could have been avoided if she had just told him the truth. She could have - and should have - told him in that hospital room that she heard him, heard what he said that day but she just wasn't ready. He would have understood because he's _Castle _and that's what he does. He understands, he waits for her, and it's stupid that she ever thought otherwise.

There's nothing she can do about it now though, because he's on his way to the Hamptons and after what just happened she doesn't think he's coming back. Not this time - not to the precinct, not to her.

She sniffles and purses her lips, curses herself for the way things went down, and for how horribly she handled the situation from the very beginning.

There's a small knock on her door minutes later as she's tucked into the cushions, and she stills. It's one quiet, hesitant knock, and she's sure that if her apartment wasn't dead silent she wouldn't have even heard it. Her brows knit together and she uncurls herself, letting one leg drop to the floor and then the other, her arms pushing herself up off the couch.

A hand raises to her face and wipes away the tears that still remain and then she's moving, slowly padding towards the door with no real urgency. It's just the take-out she ordered earlier, before Castle ever showed up. She'd completely forgotten about it until now, but she's not all that hungry anymore.

She grabs the bills off of the kitchen counter to pay the delivery guy and returns to the entryway, not much caring about the fact that her eyelashes are still wet and draped over puffy eyes.

But the man on the other side of the door is the last one she expected to see, definitely not right now. And yet there he is, bright blue eyes just as clouded as they were when he left, but now a hint of something else is hidden within. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, just stands in her doorway, staring at her with - her food in his arms?

Her eyes trail lower towards the bag of take-out in his hands and he must notice because his do the same.

"I uh," he finally speaks, cradling the bag in one arm and motioning to it with the other. "I met the guy in the hallway as he was coming to your door."

He shrugs and extends his arm, gesturing for her to take it. Her fingers brush against his as she grabs the bag and her breath hitches at the shiver the brief contact sends down her spine. If his subtle jerk of the hand is any indication, she's pretty sure he felt it too.

She sniffs, tries to blink away any evidence of her crying. "What are you- Did you want to come in?" she asks quietly.

He nods but doesn't say anything, and waits this time for her to step aside before he walks in. She closes the door and moves past him, depositing the Chinese onto the kitchen counter before turning back around. She watches as he just hovers in her living room, absentmindedly glancing at old photos in frames, but she doubts he's actually paying attention. His arms are crossed in a posture that screams closed off, but she reminds herself that he's _here_. He's supposed to be in the Hamptons forgetting about her and probably drinking martinis with some blonde but he's not; he came back, and she wants so badly for that to mean that he hasn't given up on her yet, that she has a chance to fix things.

So she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes her way over to him. He senses her presence and spins, his eyes coming to hers in one icy gaze.

"I'm sorry, Castle," she rushes out before he has a chance to say that he's done, that he's just come back to say goodbye.

His eyes don't change and she can see his jaw clench. "You remember," he says, voice hard, harsher than he's ever used with her. "You've known this entire time and you didn't say anything."

It's not a question but she answers anyway. "Yes."

It's just a whisper because she doesn't want to admit it, angry with herself that she couldn't just do this sooner. He looks away from her, to one of the back walls where there's nothing of interest, and then he starts moving, walks a few paces away with his back turned.

And then he laughs, a low, bitter sound from the back of his throat. "Four months," he grits out. There's the anger she was expecting. "_Four months_, Beckett, and you didn't think you should find time to tell the truth."

"What do you want me to say, Castle?" she sighs. She lied - it's out in the open and there's nothing either of them can do about it now. "I'm _sorry_, I-"

"No, I get it," he cuts her off. His hands are waving around him, coming to a stop in his tousled hair. "You looked me right in the eyes and lied in that hospital room, told me you didn't remember." His voice is rising with each word and he finally turns back around. "I would have understood if you just _told me_ you didn't feel the same way, Kate. Instead you let me follow you around for four months, stupidly thinking that maybe someday you'd remember and something else would come of it."

Her mouth drops open and she blinks, too stunned to even think about where to begin. The use of her first name catches her off guard, as does the rest of his outburst.

She must have stayed silent for too long because he's running a hand down his face, shaking his head as he moves to leave. His voice is ice cold when he finally says, "Y'know, I should go."

"Castle, wait," she says, catching him by the hand to make him turn to her. She lets out a low, teary laugh. "You're an idiot."

His face scrunches up, winces. "What-"

She sighs. "I lied-"

"Because you don't feel the same way. I get it, alright?"

"No, you don't get it," she says firmly, refuses to let him leave without knowing the truth. "Do you think I _wanted _to lie? Do you know how many times in the past four months I've wanted to tell you the truth? How many times I've wanted to say that I heard you?" He's silent, his eyes trained solely on her. He's still angry, she can see it, but he's listening and that's all she can ask for. "Every day, Castle. _Every day_ I wanted to pull you aside and tell you, every day I wanted to call you and tell the truth."

He considers her. "Why?"

She knows what he's asking; not why she wanted to tell him, but why she did it in the first place.

"Because I wasn't ready to face the truth," she admits, rakes a hand through her hair and steps back to sit on the couch. He waits a few seconds but eventually follows, taking a reluctant seat in the chair opposite her. "I had just been _shot_. I was in that hospital, in pain and dealing with everything that's happened and then I was faced with these new revelations and I couldn't do it. So I lied. To buy myself some more time, to think everything through before I did something I'd regret." She rolls her eyes, a sad laugh escaping her throat. "How well _that _worked out."

She's fiddling with the drawstring on her sweater when he speaks. "But why lie, Beckett?" Some of the ice in his voice has melted, replaced with a resignation, and she's pretty sure she liked it better when he was angry.

Does he really not get it?

"I wasn't ready to face my feelings."

He looks at her curiously. "Your feelings... for-"

"You," she breathes.

"For me," he repeats dumbly, his entire face just frozen in place. "Your feelings... for me."

She nods, chews on her bottom lip as she sighs. There it is - she's let it out, the truth that's been weighing down on her for four months. The truth she's kept hidden under a lock and key, left to stew inside her until it became too much, overflowed and ruined everything she's been trying so hard to protect.

No matter what he decides to do now, at least he knows.

She tucks her legs into her body and watches carefully as he takes it in; his face softens ever so slightly and the surprised look etched into his features hasn't yet faded. After a few minutes of silence she looks away, casts her eyes down to the floor and wrings her hands in her lap.

"What feelings might those be?" he asks quietly a while later, and when she looks up there's the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

She rolls her eyes, lets out a breathy laugh because he's still here, he hasn't stormed out again, and he's smiling - almost. "Feelings I'm still not sure what to do with. Feelings I'm terrified by."

He frowns. "You don't want..."

"No, no," she stops him. "I do. _God_, Castle. _That's _what terrifies me. I'm not where I wanted to be when I even thought out... _this_." She gestures between the two of them. "I want to be more than I am. For myself, and for you, to be able to work through these issues and make... whatever this could be, worthwhile." She sighs, puts her head in her hands. "I don't know."

He leans over and suddenly there's a large hand on her knee, the warmth burning through her leggings. "Hey, no. You don't have to be anything else for me. You're enough."

She offers him a small smile and tries to ignore the erratic pounding of her heart. "You deserve more than this, though." She motions to herself, glossing over her body and tear stained cheeks. "I'm a mess."

He shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong," he says with a sigh, reaches over to swipe at one lone tear under her eye. "I don't deserve you."

She scoffs. "Right."

"It's true. What do you think I hear at every poker night? That you're lucky to have me tagging along? No. They all laugh and tell me you're way out of my league."

She gazes up through her - now less tear soaked - eyelashes, a skeptical look painted on her face. That can't possibly be true, but she just lets it go.

"Why aren't you more angry?"

It's not that she's unhappy he's still sitting here, still listening to her and hasn't stormed out. Because she is. But a part of her wants him to just get it all out, all of the anger she knows he's garnered along with the knowledge of her lie.

He looks at her with conflicted features. "I'm upset that you lied, that you felt like you had to keep this from me for so long," he says, pauses at the small nod he gets from her. "But now I understand why you did it. It hurts, Beckett, I won't lie. And it'll take me a while to grasp it all, but I'm just glad you've decided to tell me now."

"I'm bad at this, Castle," she murmurs.

"So am I," he shrugs. "Got the track record to prove it." Her lips quirk upwards at his attempt for a joke. "We've both made mistakes. We're not perfect, but we _are _good together. As a team, as partners, as friends. Who's to say we wouldn't be good as something more?"

She pulls her bottom lip back between her teeth. "I'm still not ready," she sighs, gives him a ghost of a smile. "But... someday soon I hope to be."

He returns with a comforting grin. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises, any residual anger having dissipated almost completely. "I'm still getting used to whatever _this_ is that's just happened, but whenever you're ready, we'll work through it together. You're not in this alone."

"Why did you come back," she asks suddenly, and curses herself for it immediately. But she's too curious. There's no reason he should have - she wouldn't have blamed him if he didn't.

He lets out a sigh and leans back. "I never left."

She lifts an eyebrow, confused. "But you-"

"I didn't even get out of the hallway," he admits. "I sat against the wall for a while, but I never left. I couldn't."

"Why?"

He laughs with a shake of his head. "I left with the intentions of getting you out of my head, out of my heart, but I realized before I even made it to the elevator that it'd never happen. If there's one thing I've learned in these past few months - these past few years even, it's that there's no getting over you, Katherine Beckett."

She's staring at him, wide eyed and at a loss for words. She doesn't even know what to feel first, pained that he wanted to get her out of of his head - _and his heart_, which makes her breath catch in her throat - or utterly surprised and, admittedly flattered, that he's just said there's no getting over her.

So she just bows her head as a blush rises to her cheeks, lets her hair cascade into her face and gives a shy smile.

"I need some time," she breathes quietly, notices how he perks up at the sound of her voice. "But I want this, Castle."

He smiles at her, the one she didn't think she'd ever see again that brings crinkles to his eyes. "As much time as you need," he says, his voice so genuine and such a contrast to the ice cold tone he showed earlier. "You're worth waiting for."

A few seconds later she pushes herself off the couch and moves behind him, watches his eyes follow her until she can no longer see him. She grabs the bag of forgotten Chinese and returns with it, plopping it on the small table between them.

"You hungry?"

He nods, smirking in her direction as she opens the bag and pulls out two cartons of food. She places one in front of him and keeps the other in front of her, before her hands travel back into the bag to grab the chopsticks. There's still a lot they need to talk about and work through, a lot to figure out, but that can wait one more day.

"Thank you... for coming back," she whispers around a bite of lo mein.

His grin softens, those perfectly blue irises warm and inviting when they meet hers. "Always."


End file.
